Pit Stop
Pit Stop is a short story written by revolving around 's Tollubo. It is his entry into the Ten Year Anniversary Contest. Story The island Tollubo set his eyes on was a depressing, uninteresting sight, covered in rocks and moss, but not even interesting moss. Boring moss. He would only be there a short time, as he had convinced the trader he was riding with to take him to a more populated island, but this was a necessary pit stop, for fuel and supplies. As he expected to wait a while, he looked about for anything interesting in the tiny village. The buildings were all run down, beaten, and stripped to the bone, but the small number of Matoran who dwelt in them seemed happy. Tobullo noticed a few trading with the ship that brought him in, and the one who would be taking him out. He approached the largest house, assuming it was the home of the village leader or Turaga, where perhaps he could get some information, or something he could do to pass the time. “No one lives there, traveler,” a being behind him said. Tollubo turned to see a Turaga, small even for one of his apparent age. The Turaga wore a noble Huna, and looked to be of Air, though his armour was flecked with orangey-yellow accents. His staff was beaded and decorative, with the tooth of an unidentifiable beast atop it. “What do you mean? It’s the nicest place in this trash heap,” Tollubo replied. “It is a house for one who will come and change this place. The Great Spirit, it is said, chose this island to be home to an important Toa someday.” “And you believe that?” Tollubo asked, his opinion of the island lessening quickly. “Perhaps, perhaps not.” The Turaga shrugged. Enough of that dreary house, anyways. Why are you here?” “I am just here for a bit, I will be gone very soon,” Tolllubo replied, rather curt. “And thank Mata Nui,” He thought. “I assume you wish for something to do before you leave? I know our little village is not terribly interesting for an adventurer such as yourself,” The Turaga said. “That would be good, what is there to do in such a quiet, simple town, though?” Tollubo asked, not sure whether to continue being bored or give in to the spark of interest that this place may have something interesting to offer. “We have a mystery that needs solving,” The Turaga said, beginning to move away. “Perhaps you can be of help.” “What sort of mystery?” Tollubo asked, following. “What shall we do at our annual celebration?” Tollubo sighed. Another island of boring people with nothing to do but mundane chores. May as well make conversation so he could learn if there were any nearby islands with more to do. Maybe he could swim to one. He would probably drown, but it was better than staying on this blasted island, then a question popped in his head. “Why do you celebrate?” Tollubo asked. “Because it means we have once again survived, without Toa and without numbers,” The Turaga said. “Many things look to this island, we know not why, and we must defend many times in a year. The celebration raises our spirits.” “Interesting. You fight, and often, no less.” “We don’t seem it at first, do we? But that’s where these beads come from.” The Turaga gestured to his staff, lined with around forty beads. “Every attack you’ve won? Impressive.” “Every attack we’ve won in this past year. The raiders are relentless, as are the Dark Hunters, and others who seek to come here and make permanent stay." “How do you manage it?” Tollubo asked, now surprised and intrigued. “Forty Matoran of Air in this village, Around the same number of fire, and again for water. A hundred and twenty Matoran are capable of much when they know the land they live upon,” the Turaga said. “Homeland advantage can’t be that strong. You must have something else defending you,” Tollubo said, adamant. The Turaga chuckled and walked off. “Everyone has secrets. If you need anything in your stay, ask for me. I am Turaga Larkios.” Tollubo was now intrigued. He had to find out what it was these Matoran used to protect themselves. He went to the market to see if anyone would spill the beads, or at least explain how there were forty of them in the past year. He walked up to a stand with a Matoran of fire, selling kholli balls. “Hello Matoran, how do you defend yourself against attacks in this… quaint place? “What do you mean, defend? We have nothing of value here.” “But your Turaga told me...” “Eh, ignore him, he’s probably just trying to scare you or something.” “Really? Why would he do that?” Tollubo asked. “People get bored, you know.” “Doesn’t boredom imply you had something you were doing in the first place?” “Fair point, outsider.” The Matoran laughed. “The place is a good one to live, though.” “If you say so.” After three hours of fruitless searching, similar conversations, and an inescapable stench of dead tarakava, he went back to Larkios, indignant. “You lied, Turaga.” “Well you got me. We don’t defend ourselves from countless attacks from raiders and Dark Hunters. The scars on the buildings are just from storms, and the beads are just decorative. Just trying to make your trip more interesting, I suppose. This isle isn’t the most interesting without a little story put behind it.” The Turaga walked off, but Tollubo could swear that the old Turaga was chuckling softly. The next day, Tollubo awoke, and headed for his ride. Larkios waved as the Matoran walked away, as did many of the Matoran he had spoken to. As he boarded the ship, he did not look back, he simply boarded and prepared for a more interesting place. “Remember, Tollubo, was it? Keep your appendages inside the boat at all times, if you value them, that is.” “What’s the big deal?” “Just do it, kid, unless you want to get rebuilt piece by piece.” “I mean, I was thinking of redesigning my look...” As the trader steered the boat away from the dock, Tobullo noticed another ship head into the dock, one covered in what appeared to be Skakdi raiders. Tollubo almost jumped out to help, then he discovered why he was not allowed in the water. A massive creature, unrecognizable in type, sprung from the depths, and wrapped its tentacles around the ship, dragging the pirates to the bottom of the ocean. Some driftwood washed ashore, and a few Matoran of fire gathered it. “Captain, if you ever see me again, remind me not to come back here.” The captain chuckled and steered towards their next destination. The End. 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